Dietary Requirements
by Szept
Summary: Isn't it weird, Taylor sometimes wonders, that her life only picked up after her death?
1. Cravings 1-1

_Dark._

It's the first thought that goes through Taylor's mind once she wakes up. A warranted one, really, given the total lack of light she's exposed to. Have the street lights finally given up? No, can't be it. There would still be some moonlight, however little should clouds obscure it, but still.

Her second observation is that it's... quiet. Really quiet. The sort of silence she's not sure she's ever been exposed to. There's – _always_ something, everywhere. Cats yowling and dogs barking, cars driving in the distance, or even just the wind. Now? She can't hear anything at all that isn't the result of her squirming.

The third thing she notices is that there isn't much room to squirm.

She raises her hands – or tries to, anyway, as they encounter resistance in form of – something, not even a feet above her chest. It has some give but not much, some sort of material? Sort of smooth? She can't really tell. She makes a fist to strike the thing and hears a muffled thump when it encounters a solid surface on the others side of the fabric. Her brows furrow in confusion as she repeats the action. It kinda sounds like plastic or wood, she can't quite tell. Her legs encounter the same problem when she tries moving them, her knees striking something through the- dress? She wiggles a bit, as much as the tight space allows her, to confirm that yes, she's wearing a dress. For the first time in years. What the hell is this, where-

For a short moment, she freezes when a memory slips into her thoughts. Just for a moment, as she then violently thrashes her whole body against the walls of her trap. Knee, elbow or knuckle – none make much of an impact against the surrounding cloth.

"Help!" Her cry is loud, too loud, in the claustrophobic space of-

-the locker, she's in the locker. The- those three bitches pushed her in and she- and nobody has freed her, it's night now and nobody has freed her from the filth and the stink and- no, nonono that's- that's not right. Calm, she has to calm down. This isn't the locker, this can't be the locker. She's- she's lying down, and the smell only came when she thought about it- it isn't here. No filth either, she's clean, she knows she's clean even if her mind is telling her she's still sticky and dirty and-

And nothing. That came after, she's clean, she's not trapped in the locker. She's not- she's trapped somewhere else.

She forces herself to still. To think. This isn't the locker. Can't be. Too silent. The dark might fit the situation but it's never this silent in the city. Besides, she's clean ( _she is!_ ) so someone must have took her out and cleaned her off - _and seen her naked_ – mortification grips her heart. It's stupid, she knows, to worry about something like that in – whatever her situation is right now, but, well, the last person to see her like that was Dad and that was... years ago.

Ugh- fuck, focus!

So she's clean, that's good, even if some stranger must have done it. Who would have done so, though? Police? No. Firemen? No way. Maybe the nurse or- either the school nurse or someone in – wherever she was taken. Hospital? She would go there after something like that, right? Right. So hospital. She must have passed out in the locker and been taken to a hospital. Makes sense, it was foul in there, a biohazard for sure. And that thing she's wearing - must be a gown. Okay. Okay. So she's in a hospital.

…

But where? Why would they put her in a closed space like this? She wants out. Out!

"Hey!" Nothing. "Hey!" Her shrill scream momentarily deafens the girl. "Anyone! Help!" She holds a breath in to listen. But there is nothing.

Nothing.

A surge of panic grips her chest, unpleasant -almost painful in its intensity. She presses her trembling hands over her heart.

Nothing.

She presses her fingers against her ears.

Nothing. There's nothing.

Her knees hit the ceiling when she tries to draw them in, her hands rummage over the sleeves covering her arms, and still, she doesn't let her breath out.

She waits an excruciatingly long minute, every second slower than the last. But no pain comes, no burning, no urge to draw a fresh breath. Nothing. She finally lets the air out of her lungs, taking another long minute to breathe in again. Nothing.

She's - is she dead? She doesn't... feel dead. She's not dead, no. She giggles. Silly Taylor, she wouldn't be thinking about being dead were she truly gone. The dead don't think, or move.

Or scream.

She does.

She's not sure for how long. Time has little meaning in the small, dark space she's provided with to violently thrash around in. When she finally stops, not one thing has changed. No-one has come to rescue her, no light has come to comfort her. Nothing.

But it helps, a bit, in the way exhaustion helps one to calm down. She lets her arms fall by her sides, there isn't any other place she could put them, really. Numbness overcomes her as the reality of her situation sets in.

She's in a box, or some other container, and last she heard, hospitals don't lock people in boxes. They don't lock people in things at all. Even if they did, the absolute silence she's trapped in isn't possible anywhere but in a well sound-proofed room. Who would put her in a sound proofed-box, or in such a room? Why? No, there is an easier, if incomparably more terrifying answer.

She feels around the insides of her prison once again, the smooth material surrounds her on all sides. She gives it a few experimental knocks, and her heart sinks, now that she's actually listening. The sound confirming she's not just in some box, but a coffin. A buried coffin.

Taylor swallows, feeling another surge of panic welling up inside her. She crosses her arms over her chest and shuts her eyes, breathing once again, if only to help stave the fear away. It works, enough at least that time and thoughts don't escape her this time. It still takes her a while to get her thoughts in working order again, to recount what she knows.

The coffin. She's in a coffin. Her heart isn't beating and her lungs don't burn for air. She's buried in a coffin. The last thing she remembers is the locker, and the filth and bugs and putrid smell and Emma's laugh. And now she's buried in a coffin. She's clean, dressed in- not a hospital gown, she doesn't think. They don't bury people in hospital gowns. She's in a dress. In a coffin.

And she's hungry.

The girl shakes her head. All of that doesn't matter. She needs to get out. It... helps that she apparently has no need for air, though thinking about her lack of heartbeat makes her spine crawl. Has she triggered? That, at least, would explain her body's condition... What sort of stupid- of course she's triggered! How else could she not need to breathe? She's triggered! She's a parahuman! She can be a hero, like she always imagined and-

And she needs to get out of her grave first. Which begs the question, how, why is she here at all Clearly, she's alive. One hears stories about people being buried alive by mistake but...

She rubs at her chest.

A mistake then. A terrible, horrible mistake. Oh, she's going to sue. She doesn't care about not having a heartbeat. She's going to get out of here, and sue whoever signed her off as dead!

…

But how does she get out? It's an immense relief, not having to worry about asphyxiating, but if the hunger pangs are anything to go by, she doesn't have forever. How long can a person last without food? Two weeks for certain... she once read about a caver who lasted a month without food, though with abundant water at his disposal. Right, she has no water, that means... three or four days? That is – actually, not that bad when she thinks about it. Now, how deep is she buried? Is 'six feet under' just a saying or does it hold true? Shouldn't be much deeper though, should it? Certainly not so deep she'd lose her sense of direction on the way, the ground should be softer if she goes upwards too, unless it's frozen, oh she hopes it's not frozen. She also hopes Dad didn't buy a particularly sturdy...

Oh God. Dad.

She remembers how he was back when Mom died. A husk. A barely functional wreck of a man. And that was with her still around. Now? She can't-

No! Useless, pointless thoughts. She'll get out and get back to him. Everything will be fine, just fine. Hmm. She wonders, now that she's been buried alive, if she goes to the police and points to the trio as her – what? Almost murderers? Would-be murderers? Whatever, if she points to them as the ones who caused her to almost die, what with her funeral and all, they'll have to take her seriously, won't they?

But that's for _after_ she digs her way out of her grave.

She claws the material off the ceiling, to stop it from absorbing the force of her hits, and strikes the wood - to pathetic effect. Not having space to swing her arm is an issue, she's not particularly strong. The second hit strikes the material somewhere beside the uncovered wood. Ugh. She rips more of the soft covering off. She's trying to hit the same place, but it's kinda hard in the absolute darkness of her coffin. She's not sure if her third, or fourth and further strikes hit the same place, she's trying, but there is no way for the girl to be sure.

She continues for what must surely be at least an hour, never taking a break, continuously striking the wood, hit after hit, with as much strength as she can put behind her strikes. Her hand doesn't even hurt, but when she stops for a moment to trail her fingers over the uncovered wood, she doesn't find even one small crack.

That's... she has time. She has time. Three days of doing this will surely be enough to break the damn lid. And then widen the hole enough to crawl through it - without the dirt falling in and burying her so that she won't be able to move and die of- thirst-or-gocrazy-andstayhereforever-

Her fist pierces through the wood as if were cardboard. She sniffs the snot back up her nose.

It's only a moment before she begins frantically widening the hole, it's not easy, and she cuts her hands open in process. But what little pain she feels is nothing compared to the single-minded need that pushes her onward. This is nothing, it's all nothing. Getting out is the only thing that matters.

And so she works, digging away the cold, hard ground, at first only with her hands, and then with her nails when the ground becomes frozen. It hurts, just a bit, but it doesn't matter.

It takes time - how much, Taylor can't say - but finally, one of her hands finds no more resistance and she feels cold air caressing her skin. She doesn't dig as much as she heaves herself upwards after that, working with her whole body to worm out of the earth.

She sprawls herself on the ground, back to the frozen soil, and takes a deep breath, not because she needs to, but because it feels nice to have fresh air fill her lungs. Refreshing, after the staleness of her coffin. She wipes the dirt from her eyes before opening them to the sight of a cloudless, blue sky. She lets her tense muscles relax, basking in the blissful feeling of sun rays upon her skin.

A snort escapes her. She kind of expected it to be night-time. That's how these things always go in movies.

The teen stands up and narrows her eyes to look around, finding a startlingly familiar sight before her eyes...

 _Annette Rose Hebert_  
 _1969-2008_  
 _She taught something precious to each of us._

...with an unfamiliar stone right beside it.

 _Taylor Anne Hebert_

 _1995-2011_

 _She gave us so much with so little time._

She presses both her hands to her chest in attempt to calm the sudden pain inside. She sniffs, finding her eyes to be welling up. Stupid. She's fine. It's just a dumb gravestone.

Taylor wipes her eyes.

She's not going to cry. She's up here, not down there, not in her grave.

She blows her nose into her hands, wiping them off on her ruined, plain black dress.

She's fine.

Just fine.


	2. Cravings 1-2

There are eyes following her the entire way home. She finds herself having to fend off questions about her well-being, as well as refuse offers of help, more than a few times. There is still decency left in people, it seems, however misplaced (she's fine!). Although she supposes she can see why would she would elicit sympathy, what with her dress being a glorified rag, plus her skin and hair being coated in dirt. She must look a sight! ****

She takes a lock of her hair between her fingers. She's not sure why, but it seems to have lost some of its color. Though it's hard to tell beneath the layer of dirt seemingly infused into her locks. ****

The state of her dress certainly doesn't encourage nice thoughts either. It's torn, dirty and overall terrible. Where did her shoes go? Taylor can't say. Probably got stuck in the ground while she was crawling out of it. She only noticed their absence after walking out of the cemetery grounds, with her feet on the pavement. Not a big loss. She's throwing her dress- no, she's going to burn her dress, yes. And have her gravestone removed, and a lot of things. There won't be a trace of all this when she's done, none. ****

She's fairly sure her feet ought to hurt by now, and that her cut-up hands should bleed. They don't. Perks of being a parahuman, at a guess. It's a pity her eyesight is as impaired as it's always been, no changes for the better there. She hadn't been buried with her glasses, which is proving to be a nuisance. She can't read many of the street-signs without them, and has had to ask for directions more than a few times, with each of those situations proving to be... awkward at best. Though she can't really fault anyone for that, can she? Taylor suspects having a thoroughly dirty mess of a girl approach her would make her uncomfortable as well. One woman tried to stop her, to "call the fuckers in", and would not take no for an answer. It was easy, pathetically easy to pull her arm out of the woman's grip. So easy, in fact, that she accidentally threw her to the ground. ****

Taylor did not try to apologize. Maybe it's the day she's having, maybe it's the angry hunger stirring in her stomach, or perhaps just the fact that the woman was annoying. Taylor ran without a word. And what a run, too! She could outdo Sophia, no problem. She's curious how fast she would be with shoes on her feet. ****

Another thing she's learned about herself while running? She doesn't tire - well, maybe she does but the exhaustion hasn't set in yet, after a good few miles, so she likely doesn't. It's a strange thing, not to feel at all winded after something like that. She'd be left a sweating and panting mess after a run like that before this whole ordeal. It's weird. To run without an accelerated- without a heartbeat, or the need for air, or tiredness. Wrong. Lacking. ****

The absence of pain she knows should be there – as evidenced by the cuts and tears on her limbs – is similarly distressing. Not that she'd like to feel it, no, just... it should be there. It's like it all went and found itself a new home in her stomach. ****

Ugh, her stomach. Seeing people carrying snacks and drinks on her way isn't helping one bit, though that's putting it mildly. Were she a lesser person, she'd attack one of those oblivious, shameless idiots and- uh, and liberate their lunch for someone who actually needs it. Meaning herself. Not- not smash their heads against pavement, that would be... excessive. Damn, she can't think clearly on an empty stomach. First order of business when she gets home – eat. Sounds like a plan. Argh! Thinking about it doesn't help in the least either. But that's fine, she's here! ****

She's home. ****

She'll eat and phone Dad... or talk with him if he's on a leave. Yeah, he's probably on a leave. He'd better be. Is it- weird to want him to grieve after her? Wrong, to want him to take time off work to do that? He did when Mom died. She read stories about ghosts, angry ghosts, angry that they've been forgotten or not mourned after. She always thought them unreasonable. It takes being buried alive to understand them, apparently. Sure, she's alive, but finding Dad not doing anything, hmm, different, would feel like betrayal. ****

She feels like a brat. She shouldn't want him to suffer. But to 'die' and have no-one mourning her? It's selfish, but she can't help it. ****

Taylor instinctively pats down the space where her keys would normally be when she stops in front of her home. She's in a dress, right. Nobody expects her to come back home, she supposes. A twinge of annoyance runs through her. The next time she's buried, she'll have her dress sport a pocket, with a key to her house in it. ****

She rings the bell. Nothing. ****

She spends a few minutes repeating the action, announcing her presence to whomever it may concern that would happen be inside. Because apparently, it won't be her father. She works her hands into fists and back, feeling an undercurrent of anger building up in her chest. No - it's not fucking petty! He buried her and just went back to living? Just like that? ****

 _Oh, you buried your daughter? Good. Out of sight, out of mind. Now go back to work and try acting like all of this never happened._ ****

Seething, she kicks the door, the pain of her bare-footed strike barely registering in her mind. ****

She takes a step back with a growl, and glances at her unbleeding hands. They look horrible, not because of the wounds, but because of the dirt and splinters in them. The teen shakes her head. She already has to go to a hospital, to sew her hands up if nothing else, but she has a suspicion it won't end on just that. She might be vaccinated against common diseases, but she'd rather not think about just what the dirt in her wounds might be contaminated with. But! She still has skin on them, which is something she's not sure would still be the case if she tries to bust something else the way she did some hour or two ago. ****

The girl is starting to think that burying people with basic utilities, like in the ancient times, is not a silly idea at all. Food? Sure, throw a can of spam down there with her, it's only one or two dollars. and did anybody think she might get hungry in that coffin? Of course not. More importantly, why would anyone not bury their loved ones with a key to the house? What wrong can it do? If the dead remain – well, dead, the key will stay there with them forever, and if not, then it might come in useful. A win-win situation. ****

She shoots another dirty look the door's way, before stepping back, avoiding the creaking step on instinct. ****

Alright, how does she get in? The windows seem to be closed, though the matter is up to debate, what with her eyesight. No, wait, there, that one's slightly ajar, she thinks. Dad's room. Unfortunately,, that's not gonna help her much since it's on the second floor and there is nothing to help her get up. Her powers don't involve sticking to vertical surfaces. Although... maybe she could make the jump. Her arms are thin enough to fit through the gap and open the window fully. And she does seem stronger, after all. ****

Eh, can't hurt to try. ****

With a running start, Taylor launches herself off the ground – and plants her face first into the wall, managing, however, to catch onto the sill. She groans, making a concentrated effort not to let her fingers loosen. Not an easy task, given how the world seems to float inside her head. She definitely could have done that more gracefully, but the important thing is that she made the jump, crazy as it is. Six feet up at least - suck it Sophia! ****

Now, she only needs to- ah, drat. It's closed after all... ****

Why was she not buried with her glasses again? What if there's an afterlife? What if it actually sucks and her eyes would remain the way they are now? What if she couldn't get a pair there, what then? Thoughtless, thoughtless people. She could provide better services than whatever "professionals" handled her! ****

Taylor looks down. Eh, she jumped down from trees taller than that. ****

She lets go of the sill, scratching more skin off her arms and feet on her way to the ground, where she lands on her butt with a heavy thud. A strangled noise between a growl and a gasp escapes her lips at the impact, and she remains unmoving for the next minute, silently cursing mother nature for not yet completely removing the human tailbone. Christ. ****

After (slowly) getting up, the girl looks at her forearms – scratched and dirty. Strange, without the blood. One can never quite see what's under their skin because of the red substance. A quick look at her legs confirms the same has happened to them. Well, at least she hasn't left a bloody stain on the house, that would be a pain to clean. She pokes at her arms, curious, not feeling the burn that would normally be there. It occurs to her - does she need to worry about infections, without blood circulating through her veins? That's how bacteria spread, isn't it? Her arms fall to her sides. ****

Alright, screw this. She's not waiting for Dad to come back from work for... however long, eight or ten hours. No way. What's a broken window? Dad will understand. Her life insurance should cover a stupid glass panel, right? Right. ****

Her elbow crashes through the glass in the kitchen window, adding another few shallow cuts to her progressively more ruined arms. Damn, ah well, what's a few more scars in the making, when compared to the day she's having? And who knows – she wonders as she opens the broken window outwards – maybe it won't scar after all. Worth it, either way. It's not like the lack of a few scars would ever make her forget about today. ****

She wipes the glass off the window stool before sitting on it, and not able to see the shards in detail, jumps over the first few feet close to the window. ****

Home. ****

It takes her a few seconds to move, and reluctantly force herself to clean her face and hands of most of the dirt on them – instead of rummaging through the fridge, as she originally planned. Old habits die hard, and eating with dirty hands is not one of hers. She doesn't get everything out of her wounds, she'd need to wedge her skin off some and that's... yeah no. She'll leave that to the hospital staff. Though given their track record with her, she's not sure if they're going to do the job any better than she herself is capable of doing. ****

She stops the water and takes a look at her now mostly clean hands. At how pale they are. Deathly pale, as a matter of fact. It's not the first time she sees someone's skin like that but - she swallows – but the waxy, ivory skin she's sporting shouldn't be present anywhere on a body of a living person. Such as her. Because she's alive. She wouldn't be standing here if she weren't. Her power, then. It makes sense, yes, that she'd be this pale without a working heart, but aren't powers supposed to be bullshit and ignore common sense like that? ****

The girl rubs at her chest - dirtying her hand again a bit - wondering if the lack of activity beneath her hand is a permanent thing. They still have that old defibrillator in the garage that Dad brought in from some EHS presentation. Yeah. Yeah, that could work. But should she? She's- she's fine as is, and it might not be safe to use it on a conscious person. As opposed to what? Her heart isn't beating, and it's not like it'll fry her brain. Those things would be banned, then, or she so hopes, anyway. ****

Taylor grabs a box of cereal and makes her way to the garage, briefly contemplating whether or not should she get her glasses first. Eh, she doesn't need them for that. Her sight is not that bad that she won't manage reading the instructions from up close. She grabs a fistful of cereal to unceremoniously pack it into her mouth. She might not be completely clean but she's not leaving dirt on everything she touches, it's good enough for- ****

She frowns, and chews the cornflakes for a moment longer before swallowing. The hell? She brings the box to her eye level to read the expiration date. Nah, it's still sometime next year. So why does it taste so- or rather, why doesn't it taste? Like anything. ****

She loads a second fistful into her mouth. No better than the first. She shrugs. It's food, as long as it calms the stinging in her stomach, she's fine with it not having a sliver of taste. She could make something better, more juicy, actually tasty and filling, but that would take time, and she's hungry right now! ****

And looking for a defibrillator. Right behind this door. ****

...why is there a car in the garage? Not just some car either, Dad's car. He's home? She swallows the tasteless corn mass to make room for air. ****

"Dad?! Are you here?!" Nothing. Of course. The doorbell is a good bit louder than she is, he would've heard it. Or maybe he did hear it, and elected to ignore it in favor of moping about his daughter's supposed death, she hopes, immediately grimacing at her thoughts. There's another, very real possibility that they've already been through once. He tried to shut the world out when Mom died. Alcohol helps, she hears, in forgetting about everything. She stuffs her mouth with cereal once more before putting the box away. Much as she hates to part with it, her meal can wait, the defibrillator too. ****

"Dad!" Ugh, she's not looking for him without her glasses. With that thought, Taylor makes her way up the stairs – squaring her shoulders and rushing up, _has the staircase always been that narrow?_ \- and to her room, wondering what the strange smell her nose picks up is. Has Dad spilled something? Can't be, food stinks after a while and this... it makes her mouth water. She'll have to ask him, Taylor decides as she opens the door to her room. ****

It's untouched. Just like she left it, along with the unmade bed and the mess on her desk. Has he- has Dad not even entered here since... whenever the locker happened? Fuck. It does seem reminiscent of what happened with Mom. Dad was staying on the couch for a good month, unable to deal with as much as sleeping in the same bed he shared with his wife. ****

Terrific. Now she feels like shit for having wanted Dad to mourn after her like he did... like he still does, really, after Mom. But it's only natural she would want it, isn't it? Because if not him, then who? Emma? ****

Pushing the dark thoughts away, she puts on her spare glasses from the nightstand, then makes her way to- wait, is that a police car out on the street? ****

She steps closer to the window. ****

It is. With two officers and Miss Vogel beside it, her neighbor pointing at Taylor's home with somewhat jerky motions. Ah, right. Her attempts at getting inside the house might have looked somewhat similar to a burglary from an outsider's perspective. What a nice woman, to not recognize her. Though given what she knows about her, she'd likely call for a priest, if she knew it's her wrongly-buried young neighbor that broke into the house. The woman probably attended her funeral, now that she thinks about it. ****

She's not dealing with this. Not atop everything else thrown her way today. Not alone at least. Where the hell is Dad? Bathroom? She flips the light on there. Nope, though the acrid smell of vomit and alcohol does hang in the air. She's about to leave when her eyes catch something in the mirror. Namely, herself. She saw her own blurry reflection a few times on the way home but- glass isn't a mirror. And it's only now that she's cleaned herself a bit. Entranced, she steps closer. ****

Pale – she knew that already, but it's one thing to look at her arms, and another to see her own face. A few dirty splotches still standing out against the waxy white of her skin, especially around her eyes- no, wait. That's make-up. She must have rubbed it all over when washing her face, well, guess nobody had to care about her somehow managing to ruin it. A bubble of laughter builds up in her chest. Because how funny, and how pathetic at that, is the fact that her first proper make-up was done by- whoever does these things before burials. Can't have your dead look too dead! ****

But what's happened to her hair? It's still dirty, but with the whole picture before her eyes, it seems – gray, and that's _with_ the dirt. Is she a blonde now? No, that's not quite right, it's definitely a different color though, lighter. She licks some of the chewed cereal off her teeth. Heh, even her gums are pale. On top of her being a parahuman, the Nazis would take her in no questions asked. A long lost relative of Alabaster – she can just imagine the reactions on PHO. ****

Too bad she's not a racist dickhead. It'd be hysterical. ****

The girl pushes herself away from the sink, she can have a detailed examination later. For now, she still has Dad to find, and since he's not on the ground floor, nor the bathroom, and she doubts he'd be spending his time in the closet – at a guess, he should be in his bedroom. The door is ajar, which is strange, or would be but for the stench of alcohol - mixed with this other, strange smell that hits her when she approaches her father's room. Hopefully it's from the last night, she really doesn't want to- ****

She freezes at the sight beyond the door, a cold fist clamping around her heart. For a moment, all feelings escape her, all to be replaced with just one - the suddenly violent pain in her stomach. It is that, which finally urges her on towards the body lying at the foot of the bed. She swallows, her body trembling. There are... leftovers, gray and red pieces sprayed on the wall, some on the sheets, with the main course readily available to anyone willing to get their hands a bit dirty, just laying on the ground, wasting. And the smell – it's like she's smelling for the first time! ****

She kneels by the head, licking her lips. ****

It's fine, her hands are not that clean anyway, now it's just– shit - it's not that easy to pull a small hole in the skull open to a reasonable degree. She can fit a finger in, that's it. She presses the head to the floor with one hand, pulling at the bone from the inside with her index finger of the other, as she can't fit the middle one in. It's not really doing much, oh for- ****

She jerks the head upwards and smashes it against the wooden floor, hard. And again, and again, untill she hears the oh-so-satisfying crack. She repeats the action once more, for good measure, before turning the body over to access the cracked forehead. There's almost no blood, most of it cold and coagulated. She smashes her fist on the ruined patch of skin, her hand sinking in a bit along with the fractured bone. She smiles, and claws the skin away to reveal the pieces of bone stuck in the soft matter they were meant to protect. Might not look as appetizing as her nose suggested it would be, but beggars can't be choosers. ****

She picks the bone fragments away, and sinks her fingers into the almost jelly-like matter, roughly plucks away a piece of it, and brings it to her- ****

"Freeze!" ****

She does.


	3. Cravings 1-3

"Jesus fuck!"

Taylor stares at her hand, at the greyish risen halfway to her lips, at the body below her, uncomprehending - for the shortest of moments - of why she's above it. The second it comes to her, she leaps away from the corpse, as if she'd catch fire for merely being in its presence. At the same time, a pang of pain blossoms in her chest, and then another, further down. A snarl forces its way through her teeth. The girl turns toward what she knows to be the source of the pain - a gun, and the man holding it, blood draining from his face.

He only manages another curse before the wounded teen slams him into the wall outside the room with a single lunge, her fingers clutching, breaking, the man's own. Let's see how he pulls the trigger now. She bites down on her lips, anticipation twisting in her gut. Let's see how he does it with his throat split ope-

-her arms go slack for an instant, when a few more firearm whipcracks sound off to her right. The pain in her side only barely registers, but her body instinctively reacts to the wounds all the same. Before she can straighten back up, something hard slugs her across the head, sending her stumbling back, momentarily dazed. When her eyes focus again, she finds the man right where she was strangling him a moment ago, only on his knees now, with an angrily raw throat - cursing God, her, and parahumans in general.

Momentarily distracted, Taylor doesn't see the second man until it's too late to dodge the strike to her back, though the hit doesn't particularly bother her. It's there, big deal. She won't let another land again. And the one who struck her? He's going to regret it, and the bullets too, ten times over!

Again the baton strikes her, in the forehead this time, staggering the teen and making it a struggle for her to see for a second. It's not nearly enough to knock her over, or be at all painful, but it's enough to draw her attention away from the man's wounded companion.

Taylor bares her teeth. On her first step forward, she finds herself damn near close to falling over, as the world tries to escape from under her feet. Stumbling onward, the girl throws herself at her adversary. The one shot he gets off before she reaches him plants itself squarely in her chest, just before she rams into the gunman, knocking them both off their feet and a great enough distance back that they end up tumbling down the stairs.

The fall doesn't really register in her mind after she hits her head on one of the steps. What _does_ is that she lands beneath the larger man, and that he, as opposed to her, made it down significantly less banged up than she, and with his fist is already raised to strike. She doesn't avoid the hit, doesn't have to. Using her body's newly found strength, the smaller of the two has no trouble at all with pushing the larger man off her. He might be twice her size, and thrice (or more) her mass, but so what? He's still just prey.

The teen takes one more hit to her outstretched arm, before finally managing to grab the baton mid swing. It's no effort at all to rip it out of her assailant's hand. Taylor wastes no time in slamming it on his head, and again, until he doesn't try to defend himself any more, until all is silent.

Finally! Fighting works up an appetite it seems, and she's already gone hungry for too long.

The girl has already pressed the end of the baton against her meal's forehead by the time the realization hits her. She's in a kitchen, there's no reason to strain herself. She lets the stick drop, and approaches the drawer where a meat tenderizer should be. A hammer would work better, but it's in the garage, so very far away, while what she wants is right there in front of her.

A dreamy smile spreads across her pale lips.

How lucky all the tools are right at hand. She can eat some and prepare the rest at the same time. What is she in the mood for? Nothing complicated, she hasn't got the patience or a full-enough stomach for that right now. Something quick and easy, then. Hopefully there's butter and not margarine. Why do some people like imitations better than-

What's that noise? Shouting, outside. _Away? Get away?_ Taylor looks outside a broken window, to see an old woman hurrying on her way to one of the surrounding houses. And a man in a uniform, heavily leaning against the vehicle, pressing a radio to his chest with his forearm.

A police car.

Police.

...

Her eyes wander to the man lying on the ground, then turn to the mallet resting in her palm, spare a quick glance at the car outside, before looping back to the man she's going... she was going to...

Taylor swallows, the lead in her stomach the most real thing aside hunger she's felt since waking up, and very slowly puts the tool away, handling it like one would volatile materials.

With shaking hands, she traces the bloodless holes in her chest. Four. She feels none of them.

Okay – this. It's okay. She hasn't- isn't-

Dad isn't-

The bile doesn't come up - there's none. All the same, the sudden nausea all but throws Taylor to her knees, dry heaving, her chest constricted as if trying to break her ribs. It doesn't exactly pass, but soon enough, the painful twisting lessens enough for the deathly pale girl to begin arranging her thoughts to some semblance of order.

What the fuck did she do? That was - it was Dad up there, she knew right away. Just like she knew right away that his brain, its pieces right there in the open, would make for a great meal. All her thoughts - the coherent ones, at least - were pushed back by that fact. That he was- was...

The teen looks at the menacingly narrow staircase.

She needs to go up. It's a pointless hope, she knows, that her memories are wrong, that she won't find what she already did. The- the body in front of her should be proof enough. And yet...

Taylor violently shakes her head at the sharp twist in her stomach. It does little to do away with the urge of grabbing the tenderizer again, so little she finds herself staring at the it. With a grimace, she seizes the thing and hurls it out out the broken window, where it won't tempt her with its presence; where it wouldn't be so pathetically easy to just pick up and continue where she left off. Gnawing at her lips, the teen turns back to the policeman. There's- there's no need to rush. Ff Dad is fine, then – well, then he's fine. And if not...

Trembling, Taylor kneels by the unmoving man to check his pulse, making every effort not to think about how many other tools there are in her kitchen, about how she doesn't truly need one. It'd be easy to crack the skull. It was easy - anyone could do it, as a matter of fact. And most of those anyones aren't even remotely as strong as her. She's clawed her way out of a grave. Can regular people do that? Well... maybe, given enough air. But crack a skull open? Most certainly. Skulls aren't too sturdy...

She slaps herself across her cheek, jolting herself out of staring at the guy's face. Bad thoughts - dangerous. And, she hopes, baseless. M-maybe she doesn't know how durable a skull is after all. That would make her day, as much as it can be made at this point.

Reluctantly, she reaches out to touch the man neck, his skin almost scalding hot against her bloodless fingers, and it's good isn't it? He's not cool or anything. Either that, or he hasn't had the time to grow cold just yet. How long does it take to lose heat anyway? Longer than a minute, probably. No excuses, then, she needs to- needs to find his pulse. She put him in this state - it's the least she must do. Okay, where do her fingers go exactly? She can't find anything on the neck, but he keeps breathing, so that's good. Can people breathe and not have a pulse? They didn't say in school when giving CPR lessons, just- check the pulse and breathing. Well there it is, he's breathing, where is his pulse? Mannequins don't have one. Why do they train looking for it on mannequins?

She sniffs the snot back up her nose, as much as she's capable, what with the holes in her chest, then wipes off the excess.

The girl unzips the policeman's jacket to put her hand over his heart, the contact still bleeding uncomfortable warmth, even through the shirt. There, that's easier to find. Taylor sags in relief as she feels the heartbeat under her palm. She won't have murder added to assault in her charges. That- she's not sure by how much it would make her situation worse, but generally, killing is worse than beating someone up, even within an inch of death. She'll take anything at this point. Let the professionals take care of him when they come. Hopefully, they'll do a better job with him than they did with her. He's breathing, and has a beating heart. Should make it obvious for the damn slackers not to write him off as dead. She wouldn't wish waking up in a grave upon anyone.

Okay, maybe- maybe that's not _entirely_ true, because she would actually wish such a fate to someone like Sophia or Emma. Eye for an eye, and all that. Oh, what the hell - Madison too. The bitch might not be as bad as the other two, but that does not make her any less guilty. Hmm, she wonders what they would taste like...

Abruptly, Taylor stands up. Better leave her victim like this than with- whatever comes to her mind - like a can opener, or a plate, his brain on it, with salad and potatoes. And sauce, maybe.

She hugs her arms close to herself.

The fuck is this coming from? Are those intrusive thoughts? She thought she's had them for most of her life, and yeah, sure. They involve murdering people in their sleep, sometimes, or setting a nursery on fire that one time. But those were just that, stray thoughts, right? Like, she did wonder about the taste of human meat, with that morbid sort of curiosity that she's read of in her books, about how it would compare to, say, lamb. But it never crossed her mind to actually go and find out by herself. Maybe it's because something happened to her in the locker, or after. Is she brain-damaged? It might be her powers which cause these... cravings. Getting powers can screw with people's heads she hears. It's a good question why she feels what she does, but does it matter right now?

Not really. Besides, she's not going to give in, no way! Cereal was just fine, thank you very much, even if the taste was less than satisfactory. So she can eat normal food. Good. Great. Doesn't matter what it tastes like. She can go on for however long is needed to avoid, well, eating people.

Maybe it'll pass. She hopes it'll pass. That's the sort of thing that disqualifies a para from being a hero, unless there are tons of fucked-up heroes out there who just hide their, uh, quirks, from the outside world. Somehow, the thought of capes being supplied with human brains fails to encourage her. She's not sure how she would feel if she found out that Armsmaster secretly thinks _tasty,_ whenever he looks at people.

But that's neither here nor now. She has to find out if her mind was playing tricks on her upstairs, like with the policemen. They weren't people - men, not really. Threat, pain, danger, food. The girl winces at the last one, turning her eyes away from the too-narrow set of stairs before her.

Upstairs, upstairs. She doesn't want to go upstairs. There is a certainty to going there that she's not sure she wants to face. When was the last time when her wishes mattered? She woke up today wanting nothing more than to go home, shut herself in her room, and eat something – possibly a cake, or a pizza.

Look how that turned out.

Taylor closes her eyes, recognizing her stalling for what it is, not wanting to go up there. A wish that doesn't matter in the least.

She runs up, skipping two steps at a time, eyes still closed. Easier that way, feels less like the walls are closing around her.

A weird sound leaves her when the girl draws in half a breath. She's not capable of more, likely because of the gunshot wounds. Wonderful. She can't even do her calming routine. Stupid cops... she doesn't – blame them, not exactly. If Dad really is in there, if he's d-dead - then she's grateful, even if they shot her a few times. What is taking a few bullets compared to finishing what she was doing?

Taylor stops before the her father's room, leaning on the wall, and exhales the very same breath she drew in after running up, mostly through her chest. Okay. Okay... she pushes herself back upright, and hesitantly steps into the open door.

For a few seconds, her mind is a void.

He's there. Of course he's there. She knew he was there. Nobody just walks away from having their skull pulled apart. Still, she hoped... she doesn't know for what. That it wasn't him? That her mind was just playing with her, because it- it couldn't have been him. Why- why would he do it, after all. She's alive! S-she's not d-dead! H-he does- doesn't get to leave her! She came back from the grave and- and he couldn't even bother to wait a few days? To mourn? Is this his way of mourning her? Of dealing with shit?!

Well fucking good on him! Because here she is, in the funeral dress he must have bought her, filthy and hurt. And why? What, was she his only reason for living? Things get tough and he just- just puts a bullet through his- his brain? What would he do if she told him about school, t-take her to some bridge and encourage her to jump? Or just offer her a bottle instead? The way he does when everything goes wrong?

She steps backwards, her back sliding down against the wall of the room between her and - and him, her chest convulsing in strangled cries.

So – she only somewhat succeeds in blowing her nose into her dress - she has no father, what's new? They might have lived together but ever since Mom, he became a shadow of the person Taylor remembers from before. Closed off, sullen, lonely – pathetic. All the things that might very well describe her as well, aren't they? The girl puts her face in her hands.

It's true, isn't it? How pathetic both their lives became, to the point when his only reason for living was her, and hers? What is her own? Him? Oh, she went through hell for him. For one and a half years, she's hid everything that's been happening to her, so that he wouldn't have to deal with her issues piled atop his own. And there, behind her back, behind the wall – lies all she has to show for her efforts. Much appreciated, Dad, real nice thank-you for all she did for him!

Pathetic. Pathetic pathetic pathetic!

They both are! Because really, what does she have to live for? School? That's not something even popular kids would say (especially not them). Friends? What friends? Family? Future? Some future... what is she looking at, three years in a juvie, after what she's done? Or hell, maybe they'll just shoot her on sight and be done with the cannibalistic freak who'd eat her own father's brain.

The mere memory is enough to make something raw stir in her stomach, something that is hardly sickness.

Heh. Hero material, that's her, all right.

The orphan wipes the tears away, if only for a moment.

But hey Dad, guess what? She doesn't want to die. She might have nothing to live for, but she still doesn't want to die. Does it make her a bad daughter that she finds the thought of denying Dad seeing her in afterlife amusing? Probably. No worse than him denying her seeing him alive again. That will teach him - that or the devil, if the priests are right. She doesn't remember seeing anything before waking up in her grave. Then again, she never died, so it only makes sense, right?

In any event, Taylor hopes that priests are wrong. What Dad did... he deserves a lot of things, _some_ suffering among it, but for it to be eternal? No. She doesn't want that. Bad as their relationship had gotten, she would never wish that upon her father.

Still, if he's looking at her right now – the girl smiles through her tears – oh, how he must be cursing himself, if he is! Serves him right, after what he's done. Ah, but here she is, thinking about what might or might not have become of Dad, while her own problems remain unresolved.

She's still alive, still here, and still elbow-deep in something foul, all three having in some measure to do with each other. What now? She doesn't want to die. She's dug her way out of her grave, and is not about to crawl back inside. She still needs to eat something – and by something she means not-brains. That's... no, better avoid thinking about it altogether. Moreover, the police (or PRT) is surely already coming - she could try explaining what happened to them. Probably not the best of ideas, lest she risks flying off the handle again when something inevitably goes badly. And why wouldn't it? Her day started in a coffin and only got worse from there. The universe's sick idea of a joke, to which she's missing some much needed context.

No. No, if she's to be apprehended, it would be better if she turned herself in at a police station, or PRT right away. Less chances of things going south.

If.

Being arrested doesn't exactly appear encouraging, but is running off to the streets a better idea? Well, certainly better than staying. She will have an opportunity to turn herself in whenever that way. Because when the police come, that choice will be made for her. A plan then, good, having one is good. Alright, now, she needs to look... like she didn't dig her way through six feet of soil, and like she's not been shot, not been crying, and oh, shoes would be nice too. Easy enough. All her clothes should still be here, seeing as Dad doesn't seem to have moved anything. She needs to be quick about it though, having already used up a few precious minutes.

The girl sluggishly stands up, before dragging her feet to browse the drawers in her room, though browsing might be a generous term for the mess she's making in the process. Taylor throws the clothes down on her bed: jeans, a shirt and a sweatshirt. And oh yeah, socks, she needs socks as well. Her toes don't look frostbitten, and she doesn't think the weather is quite below 32 degrees, but it's better to have a pair on than not. She put her shoes on without socks exactly once in her life. Never again. Although it might have been the shoes, she never did wear top quality clothes... And nothing's really changed. No point in adding blisters to her growing list of injuries.

Taylor glances down at herself, blinking away the watery fog.

She's terribly dirty, her legs especially. They weren't covered more than by the flaps of her dress, but the dirt got under her clothes anyway. Her only clean-ish parts are her hands and face - not clean, but cleaner, after having been washed. All the rest? Aptly, she looks as if she dug herself through black dirt... with the exception of the skin she scraped off, that is.

Actually, she should probably check her wounds. Taylor wastes no time in stripping off the dress, and inspecting her wounded chest and side. Let's see... four - five? She only saw four holes in the dress – Taylor holds the rag in front of her, and indeed, now that she knows about it, she finds the fifth tear. Great, she wonders which of these screwed up her lung, they're all roughly the left side... was that- were these cops trying to shoot her through the heart? Like actually trying? That's- oh, fuck them! She gets there wasn't any time for warning shots and all that, but seriously. Fuck them.

The teen throws a pair of socks atop the pile on the bed before slamming the drawer shut.

They could've aimed for her legs, and it likely would've worked better too, but who gives a crap, let's just kill her. It must be lunch soon, and who'd want to miss it for taking care of a temporarily judgement-impaired girl? Well, she- she can kinda understand the sentiment with lunch. But that's the thing, that's their job! Cops don't get to just- just kill people! Suddenly, all of Dad's rants about taxes being misused make a whole lot more sense to Taylor. Some millionth part of what she paid for bread rolls yester- whenever that was, it just went into her chest in the form of five bullets.

Grand. Dad will- would've flipped out. Then again, it's his fault she's in this mess, because he couldn't properly deal with burying his daughter. Who does that sort of stuff anyway? She gets he has- he had no friends outside work, or any semblance of life outside work, really. But she's not exactly any different now, is she? No friends, no life, and now - no father. But she's not going to just end herself because of it! Oh, how he spoke about being strong, about moving forward when Mom died. She had a feeling - even back then - that he was talking mainly for his own sake, whenever he actually bothered, which was not all that often. He moved forward, all right, never mind leaving his daughter in the frozen ground.

...

That's... not really fair. It's the hospital's fault, or the Trio's. Actually, no. Both their fault. Those three bitches' for what they did to her in school, and the hospital's staff for being a bunch of rejects that only got the job cause their father worked there, or their uncle – whatever. Actually, no! Dad's there with the others, too. She never thought about it before, but now that she's forced to, if she really died, she'd want Dad to live on, maybe even a better life than he had with her. And what does he do instead? Blows his brain out so that she has a mental breakdown and attacks policemen. No - he fucked up just as much as everybody else did. Thanks, Dad.

The girl starts putting her clothes on, only to stop and throw the shirt back onto the bed.

Right, underwear too. Should she bother with a new bra? Taylor's watery eyes glance downwards, a shadow of a grimace passing her features at the placement of one of the wounds. She mostly wears the things to fool herself into thinking she needs them, and it does get uncomfortable after a while... Eh, whatever, not like anybody can tell the difference with her wearing as much as a shirt, herself included.

Taylor slips out of the last of her smallclothes after gathering fresh ones, stumbling for a moment when she realizes somebody must have dressed her up in that as well. It's- well, of course somebody did. Somebody washed her too, it's just – it feels wrong, even more so than the vision of her cold, unresponsive body being washed by a stranger. She shudders. Hopefully it was a woman. How does that work anyway? Are men allowed to work with- okay, no, that's sexist. She'd best stop thinking about it, for her sanity's sake.

The pale teen hastily throws on the clothes she's laid out for herself, suddenly feeling exposed. In her own room, with drawn curtains, alone. Ugh, she really needs to learn when to let some thoughts go...

It's a pity there's no time to burn her dress, and now that she thinks about it, everything she's had on her person after waking up today, but taking the clothes with her just to burn them on the way seems... underwhelming. She wants to make the fire big. Say, six or more feet high, at least. Seems appropriate to make it that way, and pointless at the same time. She will never forget today, clothes burned to ash or no. Will they be confiscated as evidence if she leaves them here? Taylor glances at her discarded underwear, making a face at the though of having somebody touch them.

Well, it's not like they haven't done more while she was unconscious...

They'll send her those things back, anyway, once this mess gets sorted out – if she doesn't end up in a prison, that is. She- won't have Dad's death to her name, right? He... he was pretty obviously dead when she came in and- and they have people to tell how someone died, right? So her picking through his brain won't be taken as the cause. Right?

With that though, the girl steps out of her room, still feeling filthy beneath her fresh change of attire, only to stop half a step out, her eyes glued to Dad's open door. She should see him again. She doesn't want to see him again, doesn't trust herself to see him again either. Twice was bad enough to handle, even if she didn't lose it the second time. She doesn't want to see him the way she left him and have those – _urges_ , at the front of her mind again. Even thinking about seeing him is making her feel hungrier. Maybe it was the shock, along with knowledge of what to expect, that stopped her from going crazy again those few minutes ago. She's not sure it'd help right now.

It's the sound of sirens that snaps the girl out of her thoughts. There is little doubt in her mind as to where the cars must be heading. Dammit, she's wasted at least a minute just standing there. Taylor runs down the stairs to put on her shoes, all the while swearing up a storm. She had already made the decision to leave Dad here. What would staying change, beside putting her in danger? Dad might no longer care, but she wants to live. Staying here, even if she tries to surrender, might not keep her that way. No. Run and then figure out what to do, turn herself in or not – whatever that might entail. It's a choice, at least, something she will not have if she stays. Dad wouldn't want her arrested because of him, either.

Nor would he want her to eat his brain, and the urge to go where she knows a meal... where his body lies, is ever present, her stomach constantly nagging her to find something to fill it. The policeman still on the ground would do – if she ate brains, that is, which she does not.

The girl swallows heavily when sparing the man a glance on her way to the back of the house, her stomach begging her to stop and reconsider.

She can't stay. Her own fate aside, she can't stay. Not with Dad's head smashed open. Not with this stranger helpless to defend himself.

Seconds later, Taylor is already running between her neighbors' houses, hoping that her tireless legs are enough to let her escape.


	4. Cravings 1-4

Maintaining her sunny expression is taking all the willpower Taylor can muster, and still it's not enough to convince the damned creature to come even a step closer. Well, if the dog isn't going to cooperate, then it'll simply have to be her who moves forward.

"Here, here. I've got something good for you, see?" Taylor can swear the animal is giving her a skeptical look, not at all convinced by the strained sweetness in the girl's voice. Perhaps it's the nose? Dogs have a much better sense of smell, after all. It may be it's good enough for the stray to sniff out the lie behind her promises. Stupid mutt, why can't it be a bit dumber? Did somebody kick it as a pup? Good going, asshole. She might just miss out on a meal because of that. What kind of sick bastard beats up dogs anyway?

"Good doggy." She heard somewhere that animals can understand intent from the tone of voice - not the meaning, but she's not going to risk calling the thing with all the expressive names readily supplied by her frustrated mind. "Good doggy. Be a good doggy and stay where you-"

A minute change in the animal's posture has Taylor throw herself at it the next instant. She would have preferred to do this differently, but if it won't assist her, then so be it! She only makes the leap thanks to her enhanced strength, seizing the dog and beginning to grapple with the creature. It's- surprisingly difficult to keep the animal in place with its maddened thrashing. More troublesome, at least, than she remembers doing the same to the policeman back in her home was. Who would have thought people would be easier to keep on the ground?

Alright, how does one go about strangling a dog, anyway? With humans it's obvious, even to an amateur - just go for the neck. The thing with animals, and this one in particular, is that Taylor's not even sure where their neck begins or ends.

Still, it has a throat! If she presses down on it, like so, she's bound to get it right eventually, right? She puts more weight on her forearm, making her elbow and knuckles connect to the ground on either sides of the neck. Eventually, her prey stops even twitching. The girl sniffs, and wipes away the mist from her eyes – the creature's smell bad enough for them to water, and nose to run, apparently.

She leans away, somewhat unsteadily, numbly taking note of what's become of the animal; of its crushed neck, of the blood staining the fur in the places the skin could not handle the pressure.

A shudder goes down her spine, with unease pooling at the pit of her stomach, just below the hunger.

Best get this over with. How does she open its head? Cracking it against the ground won't work the same way it did with- it won't work. Taylor looks around, as eager to find a tool she could use as she is to push the unwanted memories out of her mind, but the only thing which could potentially contain something useful is the trash container. She's not quite that desperate yet.

Stomping on the head should work. Just- there, her shoe is a bit cleaner now. She doesn't want too much of the brain to be contaminated by dirt. It's disgusting enough as is, and she's without a way to improve it. The fact she forgot to take any money aside, she's not sure how well could she handle dealing with a cashier - or they with her, if she's being searched for. Best avoid the possibility altogether.

Though... if she had brought money, she'd risk at least two purchases – a pair of gloves being the first one. She's found her hands refusing to work when she keeps them out of her pockets for too long. Must be the cold. She's not exactly warm-blooded anymore. Or warm-anything, for that matter. She's just glad to have noticed the fact before taking that nap – one she might not have woken up from.

She would also buy a pair of boots for the winter for much the same reasons. It's a pity she didn't do so before being buried alive, and that she grew out of her old ones. Sneakers aren't that good with either the cold or when it comes to cracking things open. Urgh – crap. She hasn't cracked the skull as much as smashed it in... good enough.

It takes a moment, but Taylor gets through the fur and bits of bone to the head's contents. Huh, it kinda looks like pudding with the way she opened it. Feels like it too, only doesn't smell any good. She hopes, as far as similarities go, that it won't be as sticky as pudding is, since it looks like she's getting her hands dirty again. It would be nice if she had a spoon on hand. One is supposed to eat pudding with a spoon, not bare hands, like an animal. Do the Chinese eat dog brains? With spoons? They have spoons, right? Isn't it the Japanese who use chopsticks? Why would anyone ever use them over-

Taylor freezes when her tongue makes contact with the mushy matter. She swirls it around her mouth, making sure that none of her taste buds are left untouched by the tasteless meal, and swallows it.

The desired rush of stinging craving she's come to identify with eating while hungry, does not come.

It's just like it was with the cereal, and the canned ham she took off that homeless guy. Sure, stealing - from homeless, no less - is a villainous act through-and-through, but the fact she _might_ be going crazy with hunger excuses her just a bit, doesn't it? At least the hobo can go to a soup kitchen or something. The girl doesn't trust herself to stand so close to others, not after – not now. She needs to fill her stomach, first. And since a pound of mashed pork didn't help, perhaps this will.

It's a hope that is proving to be more and more in vain, with every bite Taylor swallows, each more off-putting than the last. It's not even bad, not really. It's her stomach that's upset, not her palate. Still, it shouldn't be a surprise. She never ate a brain before, and it's an uncooked one to boot that she chose to be her first. It's only natural her stomach is rebelling a little - that or her brain.

Although, she didn't feel sick back when-

She wasn't thinking clearly back there! People can eat most revolting things when they're not in their right mind, and not even notice. Her power might be all kinds of fucked up regarding her diet, but a brain's a brain, right?

She covers her mouth, fighting back a wave of nausea that came with the last bit she swallowed.

Exactly so! Besides, she can deal with a little bit of sickness if it means not becoming a disgusting freak - people do eat animal brains... it's not common here, but it's not a crime either. Easy. Just- she needs to finish this dog and- but isn't half a brain enough? It should be, to quell her hunger if nothing more.

The teen rubs at her upset stomach.

Yeah. Yeah, half is more than enough.

Taylor wipes her hands on the cooling carcass, before stuffing them into her pockets. No point in staining her clothes even worse than she already has. It's not even been a day and she's filthy already – she never imagined how quickly one gets dirty without an access to a tap. She leaves the alley for the open street, once she deems her hands close enough to clean, looking around furtively.

It's strange, seeing the city at this - whatever hour it is. The latest she ever got home was... around eleven, if her memory serves, and the streets were still quite lively back then. She's not sure what time it is, but given how there's almost nobody out, bar the occasional rather suspect-looking fellow, she'd guess it's far past midnight. Taylor's glad for it, after spending most of the day hiding herself away in enclosed back-alleys. It's so much easier not to follow her instincts and attack anyone when there's nobody around. Kind of like a diet, really, the most important part is not to buy-

No! Not like a diet at all. Nothing like a diet. At all.

She bites on the sleeve of her jacket. How long does it take for a meal to kick in? Mom used to reprimand her for eating too quickly – something about the stomach being a lazy bum and not telling the brain that there's no need to eat more. Well, sorry Mom, but she's bad at eating slowly when it feels like something's chewing at her guts. Small wonder, that. When was the last time she ate a filling meal? Ugh, she should've checked the date when she had the chance. Although, come to think of it, there's no guarantee Dad changed the date on the calendar after what happened.

A ripping sound has the teen look down at her arm. Urgh, not again. She already tore her jacket up at the neck in a similar fashion. Just great. If things continue that way, she'll be left half-naked in a week. She could use something to occupy her teeth. A carrot – no, a carrot wouldn't do. She'd bite through it in a minute at most. Any food at all would share the same fate, barring Dad's cookies - she'd sooner break her teeth on those. A chew toy would be nice, actually. Rubber is a lot sturdier than any food. Certainly more lasting, unless there is something about those toys that dogs aren't telling their masters. They seem happy enough when given one, though. Huh. Infants would love them as well, maybe even small children. Dogs are said to be as intelligent as three-year-olds. Would that be the reason both their toys are designed to squeak?

The young runaway only becomes aware of the noise behind her after it stops. Her gut twists painfully when the girl's eyes land on a woman some twenty feet away - one rather poorly clothed for the weather. Why anyone would be wearing a dress in winter is beyond Taylor, such a short one, too. It almost makes her want to gift the woman with her jacket... almost. The fact is, Taylor doesn't have anything else to her name but the things she's carrying with her right now. The woman will catch a cold at worst, and maybe learn a lesson from it.

Taylor, on the other hand, has come to a conclusion she might quite literally freeze if she stops moving for too long. Getting rid of any of her clothes could be very detrimental to staying alive. It's a wonder she didn't get frostbite on her way home in that dress of hers, though it was still a warmer piece than the one this woman is wearing. She's got shoes, at least. Though how the woman is even walking in high heels in this frost remains a mystery to Taylor – she can barely keep herself steady in her sneakers on the ice-covered pavement.

The pale teen blinks, realizing she's staring at empty space rather than the woman. Looking around, the runaway notices her across the street, casting a nervous look back, and minutely speeding up once their eyes connect.

Thoughtlessly, the girl follows - if at a much slower pace. The lady looks back, and spotting Taylor following, quickens her step, only to have the younger girl do the same on instinct.

Taylor most definitely _does not_ jump when a car speeds just past her. When the hell did it even get so close without her noticing?! Her head, swarming with insults, whips after the cursed contraption. No, no, it has working lights. How did she not spot it? She's always found them blinding bright at night. Maybe it's got dim front lights, and is one of those dirty silent cars? Really, who ever thought it would be a good idea to make cars so freakishly quiet? They need to make enough noise to be heard when somebody gets distracted.

Talk about distractions... she's standing stock still on the street! The girl rushes to the sidewalk with a grimace at her lips. It's hard to think when hungry. She's never had to go this long on an empty stomach before.

Well, figuratively empty. She already ate a brain, just as her power seems to want her to. A dog brain, granted, but a brain nonetheless. And she knows, she knows that were it to work, she'd feel something beside the painful gnawing at her insides. Why does her power have to be so goddamn peculiar as to crave a specific kind of meat? She could live her life no problem if she had to eat cow brains- well, she could live her life, once she sorted out the mess she made of it back home. The part about the brains being human, however, is going to make things significantly more problematic when explaining herself. _Hey, hello, I'm Taylor – I, yes, I beat up two officers – but that was an accident! See, I was trying to eat my Dad's brain and..._ yeah, that would go over well for sure.

Looking around to pick a direction in which to go to, Taylor's eyes land on an abandoned pair of high heels. Aren't they- yeah. These are they same that lady wore. The girl looks around, uncertain herself as to what she's expecting to find, but there's nothing. No woman, and no reason she can discern which would explain why would the lady just leave her shoes like that – she's bound to get a cold without them, or worse. Weird, but none of her business, Taylor supposes. Nobody afraid of a cold would wear these things in the first place, with how little skin they cover.

She looks at her own dirty sneakers as she walks past the discarded heels. While not exactly fit for the weather either, she should be fine as long as they keep most of the cold outside. Taylor doubts she even can get ill because of something as trivial as low temperature - her own body is cold. How would that even work? Can she still come down with a flu? Is the flu only dangerous because of the temperature? She's not sure. They don't learn about these things at school, probably because it's pretty obvious to a normal person how this stuff functions. High temperature equals bad – end of the story, the kids will never need to know more.

She could use a doctor. They could tell her those things. The Wards are sure to have medical staff available to them 24/7. They're probably not even grateful for it, either. One only learns about the value of such things once they no longer have them. Taylor certainly wasn't grateful for being vaccinated. Dad had to hold her down till she was twelve. She'd never let the nurse anywhere near her, otherwise.

First World problems. Even the bullying she endured at school doesn't seem as terrible, in comparison. Sure, it fucking sucked, being treated like trash by some, and like she didn't exist by the rest. Perspective is a funny thing, though. What wouldn't she give to go to school and be bullied, like she always was, over wandering the streets in her only set of clothes, without a clear idea what to do with herself? What wouldn't she give to return to her silent, beaten-down father, instead of- instead of how things are?

What is she even supposed to be doing? Nobody ever told her how to act while on the run from the law enforcement, beside _turning herself in,_ and that's so not happening. Not right now, while she's as likely to bite the hand that tries to restrain her as she is to rip it off. But she does have to settle things eventually. Preferably, when she's not hungry. Therefore, the first order of business remains the same as when she lost her pursuers in the morning: Eat. And after that?

Hmm. What do the homeless actually do – she kind of is one now - beside looking for money or food? Oh, sure, her house might be standing, but she'd lick her shoe (it likely wouldn't taste that bad either, in her current condition) if it isn't under observation right this very moment. Going back there would be an idea on par with going to a police station.

Where else should she go, though? She doesn't have a destination in mind. Worse, if the continuing dull pain in her stomach is any tell, that dog's brain has indeed failed to satisfy her needs, so she still needs to figure out what to do about her diet. The only option available seems to be to try different animals, until she stumbles upon something she can use to... substitute. It's a shame there's no zoo in the city. Perhaps a monkey would work. Yeah, it would be a crime to kill and eat one, but Taylor's fairly sure animals classify as possessions of sorts. Killing one wouldn't be nearly as bad as an act of cannibalism... she thinks.

...how does the legal system view this sort of stuff, anyway? Law is a strange thing, but she would at least continue living with a clean conscience. It's not like people don't eat monkeys around the world, or so the TV says. Illegally, sure, but so what? They're still only animals.

Hmm. Where would the nearest zoo be? Boston has one, she'd even been there, once – and they did have monkeys in there, hopefully they still do. How does she get there, though? Going by the train or bus would be... inconvenient, what with the current state of affairs. The lack of money aside, she's technically a criminal, and her filthy state would raise too many red flags to remain unnoticed on the way. Would she even be let on a bus in her current state? Maybe. She rode, on a few occasions, with people who outright stank, and looked the part too. They weren't thrown off the bus, though. Maybe nobody wanted to touch them.

Daydreams, that. She can't pay for a ticket either way. Should she decide to go, it's only walking for her. It's not a bad option at all, really. Boston isn't so far away that she couldn't get there in a day or two – three tops, if she got lost on the way. She'd have to travel by forest, since any patrol would no doubt take interest in a lone girl walking by the highway, but aside from that? It's a much better plan than doing nothing.

Now, she just needs to...

...to...

Taylor warily scrutinizes her surroundings, just in case her eyes are playing a trick on her. There stand the florist booths, each in the place they've always been in, and there is the parking lot, and here, the entrance gate with the brass plate naming the property as St. Benedict Cemetery. But the worst offender of all must be the chapel a hundred paces ahead, the structure's dark shape visible against the city's glow.

Taylor swallows.

Okay. This is hardly a reason to freak out. She just-so-happened to walk up here, completely by accident. She's ended up in stranger places when she let her legs carry her to where they deemed fit. Like uh... um, like not her own classroom, back in primary! So there. It happened to her before. So what if it was just once? She's only fifteen, it's been bound to happen sooner or later again. That she ended up in a place where at least a few fresh corpses are put to rest every week is purely an accident. There are only a few hundred streets in Brockton, these are some completely believable chances, given how truly astronomical the math behind somebody winning in a lottery is – people still win. Yeah, it's- it's fine. This is fine.

All she needs to do is to turn around and go to Boston.

That's all, nothing difficult, she will go to Boston and break into a zoo to eat a monkey brain. All she needs to do is endure a day or two more of this hunger. Easy. Totally doable. Nothing hard at all, she only needs to turn around. First step is the hardest. Once she takes it the rest shall be easy. She doesn't tire, after all. Yes, she'd be hungry, as opposed to finally eating something more filling than air. Would it be bad if she ate something before going? It'd just be this once, nobody has to know...

She would know.

Her hands curl into fists, relax, and then curl up again.

This- this is entirely more difficult than it ought to be. She shuffles in place to make sure her soles haven't frozen to the ground, but finds them perfectly normal.

A grimace flashes on the girl's face. This is ridiculous. Alright, this time for real. One, two-

Taylor's head snaps to the side when the distinct sound of an incoming vehicle reaches her ears. Shit, uh, how does she go about looking inconspicuous in the front of a cemetery, in the dark of the night, in her current choice of attire? Damn. Put like that, there really isn't much of a way she could look any normal. Standing around won't help though. Move, move, moving is good, moving is normal, as opposed to dumbly staring at a passing car.

It's only when her body passes the graveyard's gate that the teen's mind catches up with the direction her legs have taken her. Crap, crap-crapcrap! She can't turn back now, it would look even weirder – she doesn't even have a phone to fake something as she hears people do! No matter, she will just turn and leave when the car passes by.

Only - the car doesn't drive away. As Taylor soon finds out when a beam of light illuminates her back. The girl freezes as the sound of the vehicle approaching becomes louder.

 _Why, why can't anything ever go my way?_

Shoulders set, she glances back at the approaching vehicle – why is a van even entering the cemetery grounds? Oh, right, she needs to move out of the way – but why is a car driving to the- could it be a hearse? Sure doesn't look like one. In fact, it looks about right to be a mail truck.

As the van passes her by, Taylor spots a man looking at her from behind the window, nearly causing the girl to suffer a panic attack, but the truck simply drives on without stopping, slowly rolling towards the chapel.

Taylor stands still for a moment more before furiously scratching at her chest, the feeling beneath it more reminiscent of an itch than the weight her heart used to have when still beating – uncomfortable all the same. She looks after the van, its lights clearly visible visible by the chapel. The people inside have definitely seen her, but it doesn't seem to have drawn a reaction, which is good, obviously. She can now simply leave and start solving her mess. Only... only what if the people in this truck are up to no good? Why would anyone drive onto the cemetery grounds in the middle of the night, and stop under the church too? There's a ban on driving cars here, she saw the staff throw a fit about it, once, he had good points too – some people would park right by the grave if allowed. These people, however, are most certainly not just some lazy visitors. Has she stumbled upon a break-in? What would anyone want to steal from a cemetery? There shouldn't be anything to steal in the graveyard proper, and they have stopped before the chapel...

Dammit, she can't leave before she makes sure nothing's wrong. She'd dreamed of being a hero for so long, and now that she got powers – however deep the mess they've put her in – she's not about to let a crime just go on unhindered. What she can do about it is another matter altogether, what could she do without resorting to violence - call the police? How?

Doesn't matter – Taylor decides as she slowly creeps towards the church - if something bad is indeed happening, she'll find a way to stop it. Otherwise, all she'd be able to think about for the next few days would be how she left without making sure everything's fine. That, and the painful emptiness in her stomach.

There's a light in the chapel, she notes as she approaches the building. A good sign, surely. Thieves wouldn't turn any lights on, would they? It's a calming thought.

The lanky girl stops a reasonable distance away from the structure, making sure to remain unseen, not that problematic a task, given the only source of light around is the chapel itself and the van in front of – nevermind. They killed the engine. It fits Taylor just fine, what light is there is more than enough to see the men as they fuss around their truck. She bites down on her already-tarnished collar, and digs her heels in when her stomach starts complaining about her idleness.

She's too far away to hear what their conversation is about, but they seem to be listening to someone inside the chapel. How many of them are there, again? She saw two in the vehicle, but maybe she just didn't see the third, it could happen, her eyesight isn't the best there is, and-

-and that's a coffin they're taking out from the back. So it is a hearse, of sorts, after all. Well, that's a relief - they really should make it more recognizable, though. Unless that's the point? Come to think of it, bodies can't be transported with hearses all the time, those are ceremonial. It would be... weird, to use one to drive a body right from the death site. Hmm, what sorts of vehicles _do_ they use to transport a body to the morgue? An ambulance? No. It would seem like a terrible waste to use those for such a purpose. She can't recall if she ever saw what happened to a body after being bagged in any of the movies she's watched. Is it just vans, like this one, that serve that purpose? Are the streets full of trucks driving the dead around, without anyone being the wiser to the fact? Was she in one of those, possibly stuck in a traffic jam, like on any other day? How many times has she walked past such a van without ever even considering the possibility of it containing a body? Could any of them still be alive, then?

She energetically shakes her head. It helps, just a bit, in dispersing her thoughts.

She really ought to leave. It doesn't look like anything's wrong here, the men just seem to be doing their job. Unless it's a bomb inside, in which case... it'd be kind of overkill, and why put a bomb inside a coffin if they could just as easily rig the chapel itself? No, they must be legit.

Ah, there's the third one.

He looks... familiar. Taylor can't say for sure in this light but she thinks she saw him once or twice around the cemetery, when she came to visit Mom. Is he a caretaker here? Probably. He must've opened the chapel – what hour is it? She thought it was sometime past midnight, but it must be closer to the dawn if they're already preparing for a funeral.

The girl glances up at the still-decidedly-dark sky, before she returns return to observing the work happening before the small church. A spark of indignation flares in her mind at the way the coffin is being handled – as if it were a piece of furniture, without a person resting inside. Sure, they're being careful – dropping it would doubtless land them in trouble, but that's just it. It's just a job – it chafes, when she remembers Mom's ceremony. How pristine they were there – the people carrying the casket on their shoulders – nothing like this.

Is it unreasonable to expect them to be like that all the time? Maybe. The dead might not care all that much, but she's everything but dead. Is this how she was handled as well? What about before being put in the coffin? The fact they wrote her off as dead doesn't inspire much confidence for their professionalism in the girl. What was her stay in the funeral home like? Did they treat her like a person, or more like a valuable sack of potatoes – did they treat her as one would a doll?

She stops chewing, her body seizing up as the visions of herself, strange hands upon her, flood her mind.

She screws her eyes shut, anchoring her thoughts on the first song she can remember, and remembers it loudly in the place of unwanted images. It works, up to a point. Enough so that she can't focus on either.

It is with relief that she welcomes the sound of a starting engine, as it gives the girl something new to focus on. The feeling only lasts a second, before she realizes just how little cover her position offers from the path the van will be taking. Although, thinking back to how the men already saw her, and didn't do anything at all... does she actually need to hide? They don't care – she's just visiting a graveyard, in the middle of the night, in winter. A teenager who's moved all of a hundred feet since they drove in some five minutes ago.

Yeah, okay, it's probably best if she does hide – they won't even think about reporting her if they don't see her. Now, just to find a place to hide and- uh, shit, she can't really see that much in the dark. There's a tree and- there, a bush! It might not be the best hiding spot, but it'll do - if the men in the car don't look too hard, and why would they?

A few moments after Taylor takes cover, just as she suspected, the vehicle drives by without an incident. Thinking further on the topic, would the men stop even if they saw her? Taylor would. There shouldn't be anyone lying on the frozen cemetery grounds at night. Then again, those two might be soulless bastards, in which case they could just call the police, or ignore her outright.

She really would prefer to believe that people who handle corpses are not the sort to ignore something looking like a person lying in a place like this... Nah. They just didn't see her, that must be it.

Still, the quicker she leaves, the better. Her heroic deed done, she has nothing more to do here. Every moment she spends idle is a moment she's not using to get out of the city, and start her journey to Boston. It would be a tall order to walk busy streets in her condition. Besides, someone could recognize her - she'd much rather not have to evade the police and PRT again. She was stuck up a tree in the park for a good two hours this morning, before she deemed it safe to come down. Thank God the dogs were acting weird, and didn't stop to bark under her hiding spot. They were acting strange all the way through, really. Perhaps they were sick? Why would the police use ill dogs to search for her? She understands the BBPD must be overworked, and probably underpaid to boot, but isn't this kind of thing counterproductive? Taylor's not sure how much it had cost to send those thirty-odd men after her, but surely, had they used well trained and healthy dogs, they'd have found her. It would justify the expense that way. Instead, they left empty-handed.

Not that she's complaining.

Or maybe she is! Just a bit. She would never be in this situation in the first place had the people who handled her body, done their jobs competently. First those in school (police among them, no doubt), followed by the shockingly inept doctor (or doctors) who signed her off as dead, and all the others whose hands she passed through on her way to an early grave.

The pale girl sneaks a glance at the chapel. She probably came through there, as well. Maybe she was even handled by the same guy who's now walking away from the chapel with something – Taylor can't see what – in his arms. He certainly doesn't seem to be taking his duties very seriously. He hasn't even closed the damn door! It would only take him a few seconds to do so, and what if somebody were to sneak in while he's away?

What if?

Can she - as a parahuman, or more importantly, as a human being - leave without first checking if the poor soul inside will not have to live through the same things she has? If she doesn't check, who will? Giving the body a proper shake might be all it takes, and she can bet nobody will do that in front of the mourners. She might very well be that person's only chance! Not everyone has the devil's own luck as to trigger after being put underground.

Surely, checking can't be any worse than leaving things as they are.

The girl leans out from behind her cover. She has to be quick, the caretaker is sure to come back, seeing as he left the lights on.

Making as little noise as she can, Taylor sneaks up to the chapel, making sure there is still nobody around before entering the building.

She only spares a cursory glance for the mostly bare insides of the chapel, and quickly moves to the coffin in the center. Huh. She didn't notice it before, but there's a strange smell permeating the chapel. Did they sprinkle something here? It would make sense, a body can't hold up forever. It's a nice smell, she has to say.

Now - how does she open the lid- there, the screws. How nice of the designer to make them usable with bare hands, she'd have to smash the coffin otherwise...

...How come she didn't think of that before? Why bother with the lid? Pushing the whole casket off the podium will do the job just fine.

Not wasting any time, the girl pushes the casket off its place, shattering most of the construction on the stone ground. It still holds together, if only by splinters. It's no trouble to pull the more stubborn wood away, and reveal a woman's body beneath. The girl drags the corpse out, just far enough for it to lie on the stone ground, but doesn't bother with turning it onto its back, not just yet. Instead, she pulls the head back, and smashes it, forehead first, against the hard tiles to a satisfying crack. Taylor secures her grip, and repeats the motion, again and again, the action familiar for some reason.

Finally, she turns the body around, and with a sharp motion, buries her fingers in the shattered forehead to ply the fragmented bone and skin apart, revealing the skull's tantalizing contents.

The texture is- different than she remembers. Harder. Less like jelly and more like tender meat. As for the taste?

Taylor can't help the small moan that escapes her mouth with the first bite - not that she tries to. More mouthfuls quickly follow as the teen abandons all remaining pretense of propriety, savagely digging into her meal, tearing at the container more and more, throwing the hard pieces aside. She only stops when she tears out the last tasty bit from the cord, though she eats it with no less ferocity or pleasure than all the rest.

The girl sits back, her stomach full, and licks the remaining taste off her lips. A lazy smile curves her lips up. She never knew a meal could make a person so... content. All she'd need to be happy now is be a comfy bed and a...

And a...

Oh God.

Oh God, oh-fuck ohshit!

She scrambles to her feet, and away from the mutilated remains. Fuck. Did she- she just-

Run! Run- she needs- she has to run!

Not sparing another look to the mangled body, she springs for the exit.

Right at the door, she crashes into someth- someone, sending them both to the ground. She doesn't look, doesn't stay, doesn't listen - she's back on her legs a second after falling, running again before she even fully regains her balance.

She doesn't stop until her surroundings have long become unfamiliar.


End file.
